


my versailles at night

by thistidalwave



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 15:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6912448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistidalwave/pseuds/thistidalwave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>But now—now it’s the quiet of the early morning, they just won the Memorial Cup, and Jack doesn’t want to let this moment pass him by. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	my versailles at night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Week 1, "Before the Draft", of the 34 Days Challenge. Huge shoutout to defcontwo for organizing it. <3

Jack holds the Memorial Cup above his head, the metal cool and solid in his hands. The roar of the crowd as he skates a lap is deafening. It should be too much, an overload, but Jack feels it all rushing over him. He feels, for once, untouchable. 

This is the highest honour in major junior hockey, one of the hardest hockey tournaments to win, and they fucking did it. This is everything Jack has worked for, everything _they’ve_ worked for. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

He turns the last corner of the rink and starts back toward his team. Their faces are bright, split wide with grins, and there, right at the front of them, is Kent. His championship hat is shoved on his head—backward, of course, so that his hair flops out from under the edges. Typical. Jack skates right for him, cup held out in front of him.

Their fingers overlap when Kent takes the cup. Kent’s smile softens for a moment, and Jack thinks, _maybe it’s not everything._

 

 

The team celebrations last late into the night despite the bus call to return home the next morning. Jack and Kent stumble through the hotel lobby with a group of the boys in the early morning, but the party has been winding down for a couple hours now, and they all break off to their own rooms.

Jack and Kent room together on the road; they have for both seasons with the team. The season before, O’Reilly was shoved in with them and they had to rotate who got the cot, but the seniority of their second year and O’Reilly being traded meant the room became all their own. It’s maybe Jack’s favourite thing about this season. 

Kent pushes the door shut behind them and locks the security lock, just like he always does. He sits in the middle of his bed and kicks off his runners as he reaches for the TV remote. He flips on the TV and turns the volume down with one hand, sucking on the straw of the milkshake he’s holding with the other.

They hit up a McDonald’s before coming back to the hotel, all of them tipsy and hungry. Kent insisted on eating everyone else’s fries and getting a huge milkshake. Jack himself ate two burgers and drank black coffee, a choice that’s left him feeling at once remarkably steady and entirely amped up on artificial energy.

He kicks his own shoes off underneath the small table and then, after a moment, takes off his jeans as well. Kent notices and nods. “Good idea,” he says before wiggling his way out of his own jeans and kicking them over the far edge of the bed. 

It’s the same as every other time they came back to their hotel room after a game or a night out: the blue light of the television washing over Kent as he sits in his boxers, his eyebrows furrowing as he channel surfs for something, anything, decent to watch. For once, Jack doesn’t want to just curl up and go to sleep to shut everything out. In fact, this is probably the best he’s felt in a while. It’s partially the win, partially the alcohol, and mostly because Kent is right there, just like he always is. 

Though, Jack thinks as he goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth, no matter how good he feels, the tight ball of pressure in his chest is omnipresent. It’s that sense of dread lurking beneath everything, the sense of foreboding that promises bad things Jack can’t identify hiding right around the corner, close enough to make him panic at the slightest provocation.

He brushes his teeth hard. Spits. Rinses. He doesn’t meet his own eyes in the mirror.

He goes back out in the room, and there Kent is, just where Jack left him. He’s always where Jack leaves him, ready to receive a pass or crack a joke. He wormed his way into Jack’s life until Jack wasn’t sure how he managed to live without Kent in his lap at parties, without Kent laughing in his ear. 

“All brushed?” Kent asks, a teasing eyebrow raised, just like always. Jack’s chest aches. 

He nods. Kent pats the space he left for Jack next to him on the bed. “Found a movie,” he says. “It’s shitty, but it’s not in French, so at least you don’t have to translate.”

Jack wishes it was. Translating is easy; it keeps him grounded in the moment with Kent curled up next to him, listening to him repeat the dialogue in English instead of just turning on the subtitles. It’s easier to navigate than the way he feels when Kent’s fingers idly brush against his bare leg. It’s easier to think about than the way Jack wants to reach out and touch Kent. There’s always that spark in the air between them, and Jack is terrified of sending them both up in flames.

He sits down on the bed, and Kent immediately slides closer to him. Jack slides closer too, unable to stop himself. Kent still has his milkshake in his hand, but he’s put the remote down, and he lets his free hand rest on Jack’s thigh. It’s casual—he’s not even looking at Jack—but Jack stares at Kent’s hand, thinking about every time he’s thought ‘ _maybe_ ’ and then pushed it down and ignored it. He told himself over and over that there was no way they could cross that line, even as he was aware that he was making an excuse. Time after time, he caught himself looking at Kent, and time after time, he caught Kent looking back. He was just too scared to do anything about it. 

But now—now it’s the quiet of the early morning, they just won the Memorial Cup, and Jack doesn’t want to let this moment pass him by. 

“You paying attention?” Kent asks, his voice soft in Jack’s ear.

Jack looks from Kent’s hand to his face. Kent is sucking on the straw of his milkshake. “Yes,” Jack says. 

They’ve crossed lines together already, smashed records and won it all. Jack gently tugs Kent’s milkshake out of his hand and reaches behind him to put it on the bedside table. 

“I wasn’t done with that,” Kent protests, frowning. 

Jack puts his hand to the line of Kent’s jaw and feels more than hears his sharp intake of breath. He presses his thumb to the corner of Kent’s frown. “I know,” he murmurs.

There’s a long pause. The only things Jack can hear are the sound of them both breathing, their faces too close together, and his own heart beating hard. “Wh—” Kent starts, but he doesn’t get a chance to ask his question because Jack kisses him. 

Kissing Kent for the first time is like the relief Jack feels after the tension between shooting the puck and the puck hitting the back of the net. It’s a foregone conclusion, a triumphant victory of lips against lips. 

Kent moves his hand from Jack’s thigh so that he can turn toward him and get a better angle. He puts his other hand in the curls at the base of Jack’s neck and tugs when he kisses him back hard; it’s an accident, Jack thinks, but it makes his mouth fall open in a gasp, and the intensity of the kiss skyrockets.

Jack feels like he’s riding higher than any drug could get him, stuck in a moment that can never end—except that it will, it’s going to, the draft is going to end everything.

Jack jerks away slightly, but Kent’s mouth follows him. “Zimms,” he says softly, so close that their lips brush, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to just give in and kiss him again. The draft is no reason not to live now, is it? Definitely not, Jack thinks as he slides a hand underneath Kent’s t-shirt. That’s more reason to do this now, before time runs out. 

“Kenny,” Jack mumbles into Kent’s mouth. He tastes like strawberries from his dumb milkshake, and Jack is so fucking stupid. He should’ve done this sooner. Now that Kent is _here_ , under Jack’s fingers and body and lips, Jack can’t remember why it wasn’t clear before.

The minutes stretch out before they both pull away, breathing hard. Kent is looking at Jack with wide, incredulous eyes. Jack thinks they’re reflecting all the same things Jack is feeling. Kent’s hand is fisted in the collar of Jack’s shirt now. His gaze flickers from Jack’s eyes down to his mouth and back up again. Kent opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, and Jack holds his breath, terrified that Kent is going to break this entire endless moment right apart. 

He doesn’t. He just kisses Jack again, and Jack falls into it, spiraling down until there’s nothing but him and Kent and the heat of the fire between them as they kiss and kiss and kiss.

 

 

Thirty-four of the busiest, happiest days of Jack’s life later, he walks up the steps to the stage in Montreal. His ball of anxiety is lodged firmly in his chest. He shakes hand after hand. He accepts a blue and orange Islanders jersey and pulls it over his head. He smiles for the cameras. 

He’s here. This is it. He made it to the NHL. Second overall doesn’t matter, not in the long run. Jack knows that. He struggles to take a deep breath. This is everything he’s ever wanted. 

He turns to leave the stage with all the franchise officials, and he catches sight of Kent watching from the side of the stage. The bright white of his brand new Aces jersey catches the light.

Jack looks away and thinks, _maybe it’s not everything._

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/thistidalwave) or [Tumblr](http://thistidalwave.tumblr.com)! I'm especially interested to see what people make of the ending, so if you want to leave a comment but don't know what to say... [eyes emoji]


End file.
